Heat
by GiorgiaKerr
Summary: He knew that that was the man he wanted to be; to make her proud, because there was no one else to be proud of him. - BB oneshot.


**Spoilers:** I'm tired, today. I think I want coffee.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own _Bones_, sunsets, or introspection.

**Author's Note:** Umm, most of this written at three on a Sunday morning, so… Yeah… It was going to be completed and posted like five days ago, but I've been swamped with stuff (three-day hike-camp, and so on and so forth).

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_Clausius Statement__: __Heat__ generally cannot spontaneously flow from a material at lower temperature to a material at higher temperature._

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The Jeffersonian glowed strange shades of mauve and orange as the sun set somewhere far outside its windows. A true winter sunset, tonight; early, cold and beautiful. Booth stood quietly on the upper platform of the lab, forearms resting on the railing, warming it beneath him. He tried to recall the rules that applied to the transfer of heat; recalled nothing more than the conversation he'd had with his friends the day his science teacher had mentioned it.

At the mention of heat transfer, his friend Cal had made a lewd gesture towards the back of the girl sitting in front of him. Then, Booth had been happy to accept that as the only example to which heat transfer was suitably applicable. It had certainly been the one his teenage self was most interested in.

Now, struggling to remember anything more, he wondered whether his life would have been any different had he paid attention to that particular lesson. He knew it was a sign of his age that he wondered about these things on an almost daily basis. But, then, it was also a sign of his experience. Abuse, war, crime; his life had been centered around the darker echelons of humanity. Around death.

Still, though, he didn't have to wonder whether he would have preferred a different life. Despite his momentary and periodic certainties that he was a failure, he still had happiness; something his brother seemed to have overlooked. Without his past, he wouldn't have become the man he was; a man he was rather proud of. Knew his son was proud of his daddy, and sometimes that was enough. But the pride a little boy takes in his father is short-lived; that Booth knew from experience.

Parker would one day learn of the things his father had done and his reaction would most likely be one of disgust, of anger, of confusion. There was a remote chance of acceptance, he knew, but that would never be immediate; he'd raised Parker better than to excuse the taking of a human life, for whatever purposes.

But the pride that he took in himself stemmed, almost exclusively, from his partner. Moments that she would just shine, radiating happiness because of him; moments that she would break a case and thank him. But mostly the moments in which she would just look at him – look at him and he knew. _Knew_ she was proud of him for whatever reason.

When she'd found out about his father, when he'd told her about assassinations and war, about his doubts concerning Parker. Each time, that reassurance that he was a good brother, a good father, a good _man_, had been enough. But it wasn't so much the words, as the way she would look at him. Understanding – yes, always understanding – and acceptance of who he was. He knew that that was the man he wanted to be; to make her proud, because there was no one else to be proud of him.

Orange light glinted off the metal of the lab below, illuminating and dissolving the figure moving across the polished floor. He used to watch her work for a different reason; loved the way she concentrated, imagined the power and intensity of that gaze focused upon him, liked to tease her, needling until she gave in.

But no longer did he do that. No longer did he need to be so close – so physically near – to her. Hanging back, now, was the way he watched her; without her knowing, without needing to see the expressions on her face because he _knew_ them. Didn't need to see her face because he could _see_ it.

The very idea would have sounded ridiculous to him not a year ago. He had always been good at reading body-language – had made a career out of it – but on a personal, intimate level, he'd never been able to. He thought, perhaps, that it was a residual habit, an ingrained incapability left over from his childhood. He was sure his ability to read people came almost solely from anticipating the path of his father's drunken fists.

Yet he still considered the possibility that his inability to read those closest to him came from the same place. He had loved his father, even while hating him; and the confusion and pain that it had caused to _see_ that love and then that anger reflected in his father's eyes as the ethanol took hold had never really left him.

But right now, it didn't matter. That was a problem for Sweets; not that he'd ever tell the kid that. Now, everything around him was too simple, too beautiful for those musings. He didn't want to think about his demons when his angels were so close, so tangible. He smirked at the analogy; stupid and clichéd, and everything that he usually wasn't, but there was something about the serenity of the late hour, the stillness and unbreakability of the metal lab that allowed his mind to let go.

The stillness and unbreakability of the woman working in it.

And she was still, he could see, on the inside. At peace in her work, despite the tedium that most would assume of the job. Bronze Age burials, he knew, were not what most people would see as a calming exercise, but he'd come to accept this as a sort of odd truth. Working with what they did was hard, and any outlet was a suitable one, even if he did enjoy teasing her about it. He smiled at that.

"Something I should know about?"

He turned his head, raising an eyebrow, surprised to see his partner standing next to him, blue lab coat slung over her arm. He smiled a little wider, wondering how she'd managed to sneak up on him so quickly.

"No, Bones, it's good," he said quietly, not wanting to jeopardize the peace that had settled over him. She smiled a little uncertainly, but joined him at the railing, mimicking his pose.

The lab began to darken with the setting of the sun, traces of orange and lilac shifting further and further up the walls, glinting briefly off the beams of the ceiling before succumbing to the nighttime and disappearing altogether.

"Are you ready to go?" he heard after a few minutes. He turned to find inquisitive eyes watching him, and it was only then that he remembered that he'd come here to pick her up, the promise of coffee unspoken.

When he accepted, he did so as quietly as before, smiling as he straightened and offering her his hand. She looked curiously at him before taking it, a slight smile gracing her lips as they left the lounge. Her hand was cold from work and washing, but he could have sworn that it sent a silent heat right through to his chest. As it did, he recalled the primary material of the elusive science lesson.

He was fairly certain they'd just broken the laws of physics.

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Love.


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